Dawn at the Abbey
by Llamasrus
Summary: John Watson has known Sherlock Holmes for almost a year when around Christmastime, things begin to take a turn, and maybe not for the better. Plenty of fluff to satisfy one's soul.
1. Chapter 1

***Just so you know, this is probably going to end up terrible in my opinion, but I totally recommend you read it. Seriously I'm not kidding, like the first three chapters are so funny and weird I just don't even know. BUT don't eat me for any disappointments.**

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**Prologue**

"I don't know! I swear! Please believe me!"

The man with the sandy hair cried as the tall man stood over him with a crowbar in his hand, blood of the smaller man's dripping from it. The tall man kicked the small one, turning him onto his stomach, and stepped on his back.

"Now tell me, John Watson. Where-is-Sherlock-Holmes?"

The small man, John Watson, gave a small cry and covered his head before the other man bent down low and shouted, "WHERE THE HELL IS SHERLOCK HOLMES?!"

"I swear I don't know!" sobbed John Watson, "He left a couple hours before you captured me-"

The man brought his crowbar down on him hard, breaking one of his ribs by the sound of it. He screamed and kicked the floor, for his hands where tied behind his back and in the line of fire. The man laughed maniacally and kicked him back over onto his back.

"You will tell me where he is or you will die right here, right now," the man hissed.

"P-please," Mr. Watson sobbed once more, "he didn't tell me where he was going. I don't mean to sound out of line, but I don't understand why you can't find him-"

"BECAUSE MY BEST SPY IS DEAD AND I'VE GOT AN APPOINTMENT AT FIVE!"

The man kicked him again and turned around to where the little girl was eavesdropping through the crack in the wall, though he could not see her. He sighed long and deeply, ending with a loud groan and another beating to Mr. Watson. Poor Mr. Watson. Suddenly, a hand came down upon her shoulder just as Mr. Watson was about to be beaten again and she turned to see a familiar face. A face she'd seen on her sister's computer often.

Sherlock Holmes.

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**Chapter One**

John woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt, his heart pounding and his body damp with sweat. A nightmare was all it was, but one of the war. He'd assumed that once he was occupied with solving cases by Sherlock Holmes' side that the dreams would vanish, but they didn't. Occur less often, they did. But didn't disappear. Sherlock had tried to keep his mind off it with insane mind games, but they only worked for about a week or so, if that. But one of the soldiers who tried to kill had strapped a bomb to John's body...his face looking so familiar...Moriarty.

He rubbed his eyes and laid down once more, pulling the covers up to his chin. The nightmares still buzzed around in his mind as the snow fell outside his window which cast an eerie shadow on the wall parallel to the foot of his bed; not a single sound could be heard until his breathing became louder for the lack of sleep and irritation. Flustered, he threw the covers off his body, grabbed his robe and stepped into his shoes, and walked downstairs to the main room of the flat. As he came around the corner into the kitchen, he gasped and nearly fell to the floor, for Sherlock was standing in his sheet over his head and body, making him look like a ghost.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" demanded John as he steadied himself.

"It's five in the morning," said Sherlock, "I couldn't get back to sleep since you woke me up with your dreams."

"I...I'm sorry, I didn't know I shouted in my sleep."

"No matter, I almost had the mind to come in and wake you up. But you were already awake."

John nodded and sat on the bar stool, folding his hands over his mouth.

"Please tell me you're wearing pants," asked John, choosing not to look at him.

Sherlock didn't turn his sea green eyes from the window, but answered haughtily, "No."

Of course he wouldn't be. What did this man have against pants?

"Why don't you go put some on-"

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"No!"

"Oh for God's _sake_, Sherlock!"

"John, if I wanted to wear pants by God I _would _wear pants! Can't a man be naked in his own home?!"

"Not when _I'm _his flat-mate!"

Sherlock turned on John then, his eyes blazing, red-rimmed, and his nose red as well. Had he been crying?

"Are you all right?" he asked kindly.

"What?"

"You look like you've been crying."

"I've been yawning. It's five in the morning and I haven't slept yet."

"You told me I woke you-"

"Yes you did. I dozed off at the sink and before I fell over, you woke me up. You should be proud you saved me from an injury."

Sherlock sat in the stool next to John, picked up a spoon, and stirred a cup of coffee sitting cold in front of him and taking a sip, followed by a very disgusted expression on his face. He knocked the cup onto the floor and laid his head on the counter, heaving a heavy sigh.

"There, there, Sherlock," John inquired sarcastically, "Maybe it's time you went back to bed."

"I'm not tired!" he whined.

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Do I have to carry you back to bed?"

"Please do."

Sherlock sat up and laid his head on his shoulder, wrapped his arms around his neck, and scooted closer, expecting to be carried.

"I wasn't being serious," claimed John, but Sherlock did not reply, he only scooted even closer.

"I'm wearing underwear, John, I promise."

"I still can't carry you-"

"Then why did you offer?"

John didn't answer.

"Get up and turn around," commanded Sherlock.

"What?!"

"Just do it!"

John did so with a little hesitation. He was about to turn and ask why he needed to do this when Sherlock jumped on his back and demanded he carry him to his room.

"Get the hell off me Sherlock!" shouted John as he stumbled into the counter.

"Easy, John," Sherlock said calmly as he placed his hands on his shoulders, sitting up as if he was riding a horse, "It's just a short walk to my room."

"Y-Yes, I...know. I just need you to get o-off me. Ow! Damn table. Sherlock...please. I can hardly breathe."

"Come on, John. I'll give you a ride tomorrow."

"No, I just-"

"Onward!"

He sighed heavily. What on Earth had Sherlock had to drink or smoke? This was not usual behavior for him. Then again, John had never seen him without an ounce of sleep, so maybe this was normal. He was afraid to ask Mycroft, but then again he did not see a reason to ask either. John moved forward to the archway, caught his breath, and decided to stand straight up. Well wasn't that a bummer? He couldn't move. Sherlock was too heavy for a beanpole. So he pressed on without an argument until he entered his bedroom where his bed was completely bare due to its sheets being around Sherlock's body. Sherlock forced John to sit on his bed so he may "detach" himself from his back and make his way to comfort in bed.

"Do you want me to tuck you in?" John asked sarcastically.

"No. Good night, John," said Sherlock and within a matter of seconds, he was asleep and John was free to trudge back to his room to dream endlessly, if at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, John woke to a dim light outside and about two inches of snow on the ground. With a quick look at his clock, he knew Sherlock would still be asleep and Mrs. Hudson would still be at work, for it was almost noon. He stretched and gathered clothes to take a shower before Sherlock woke up so he could get a start on breakfast...well it would be lunch now, wouldn't it? He popped the thought out of his mind and made his way down to the bathroom with clothes in hand, though as soon as he opened the door he, again, nearly fell to the ground in shock.

Sherlock wasn't in bed, he was in the bathtub with the door wide open and the small traces of bubbles found around his shoulders. John held his hand over his eyes, his ears and cheeks rather red, and leaned against the wall with his back to him.

"I didn't expect to see you here," said John, his voice a little shaky with embarrassment.

"I woke up around eight," Sherlock said plainly, "I've been in here since then."

"Wouldn't the water be cold by now?"

"Yes, but I've drained the water to fill it back up again-"

"Sherlock!"

"I was trying to enter my mind palace!"

"For what reason?!"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Just hurry up, please. I need a shower."

"The shower is just there-"

"I know."

"I don't bite, John."

"I'm just going to start lunch."

He slammed the door and entered the kitchen in hopes that Mrs. Hudson had at least gotten them groceries this morning. He opened the fridge to find that she had in fact gotten groceries, but none of which appealed to him. Still frustrated and embarrassed, he settled on a bacon sandwich and made one for Sherlock as well, setting it in the microwave to keep it warm.

"John!" shouted Sherlock from the bathroom.

John sighed, slid off his stool, and went to stand outside the bathroom door where Sherlock was still yelling for him.

"What?!" John shouted to interrupt him.

"I need you in here."

"Why?"

"Now, please."

His voice had cracked when he said "please". First, Sherlock only said "please" to Mrs. Hudson, and second, when his voice cracked, something was wrong. With a bit of hesitation, he opened the door. Sherlock wasn't in the bathtub and his favorite blue towel was missing as well. As John took another step into the room, he saw a reflection in the mirror and turned quickly to see Sherlock hiding on top of the set of shelves beside the shower.

"Oh for God's sake, Holmes-!"

"Sh! Kill it...kill it right now."

"Kill what?"

Sherlock pointed at the edge of the tub where a decently sized spider rested near the faucet.

"That..._that _is what you called me in here for?"

"Yes."

"You couldn't kill that yourself?"

"John, all I have as protection is a bloody towel now _kill it_."

"Will you finish drying off, get some clothes on, and go eat the bacon sandwich I left for you in the microwave?"

"Yes."

"All right, then I'll kill it."

Sherlock nodded and hopped off the shelves to his bedroom, leaving John in the bathroom with the small spider. He rolled his eyes, rolled up a magazine, and hit the spider, killing it with ease. Now nothing separated him from finishing his sandwich and getting his own bath before heading out to the countryside to get a little fresh air. Fresher than London's smog.

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The day went on and on...and on. John never got the chance to leave, for Sherlock kept having epidemics of wanting a forbidden cigarette and nearly tearing apart the flat in search of one. He never found any of course, seeing as how John had hidden them fairly well: Mycroft's office. Sherlock had resorted to whining on the couch with his violin playing terrible Christmas carols. He wished he would stop so he may read the paper or think for once.

After two hours of earsplitting and teeth-grinding tunes, John gave up and threw his paper at Sherlock's head before escaping to his room where he locked the door, picking up a book, and not reading it. Sherlock was picking the lock the moment he'd laid on his bed.

Out of the sheer impulse of humor he wished to pull on Sherlock, he walked quietly to the door, turned the knob, and let Sherlock fall in. He stood, straightened himself, and took to John's bed, making himself comfortable atop the pillows, folding his hands behind his head.

"What do you want?" asked John after he sat in his desk chair.

"You hit me in the face with a bloody newspaper," he grumbled.

"Yes, I did."

"You could've just told me you were irritated."

"I did. Several times."

Sherlock turned his head to him, "Really?"

"Yes."

"No-"

"Yes I did, Sherlock. I would not have thrown the paper at you if I didn't ask you multiple times, each time you ignored me."

"I didn't ignore you!"

"YES YOU DID! My God, man. Do you know anything outside that little mind of yours while you're just sitting there?"

"I never just _sit_, John. I always _think_. I tune things out."

"You've never tuned me out."

He huffed and turned away. John knew he'd gotten him.

"It's eight," John finally said after looking at his watch for about the fiftieth time, "shall we get some dinner?"

"Sounds delightful," mumbled Sherlock.

"Good. Make yourself decent, I'll be downstairs."

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Dinner was long and silent, but he was happy to be at home again in bed, tucked tightly in beneath thick blankets, for Sherlock shut off the heat for whatever reason. John was beginning to worry about his sanity. So he lay there shivering until he was nearly asleep, his eyes getting heavier and heavier, his mind wandering into strange places, and eventually, he drifted into a deep sleep...

Only to be interrupted with a strange shout from downstairs. John sat up to listen and catch his breath, making sure he was awake by rubbing his face and eyes. Listening hard, almost able to hear a pin drop, he waited for the next shout or some follow-up noise, but nothing could be heard. So he brushed it off as a dream he was having just a moment ago that woke him up. Nothing to worry about-

It sounded again, this time followed by the moving of furniture. The voice belonged to his flat-mate, a shout so rare he knew someone was in the flat and attacking Sherlock. He stumbled out of bed for his foot got caught in the sheets and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. And lo, he came to find that nobody was in the flat, just Sherlock being a total ass as he rolled around on the floor drunk as an Irishman.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?!" he demanded as he pulled Sherlock to his feet. He wobbled for a moment, giggling like a moron, and flopped into his chair only to laugh some more and curl into a ball. John was just thankful he wasn't naked this time.

"Sherlock, why have you been drinking?"

"There weren't any cigarettes in here so I had to do _something_," he replied in a shockingly sober voice.

"Yes, but drinking yourself into a stupor isn't the smartest thing to do. Oh for God's sake, this is the second time I've woken up in the middle of the night to _your_ ridiculous antics. You know what? I'm just going to lock you in the bathroom with that spider."

Sherlock gave him a very horrified look.

"You would not!"

"Oh I would."

"You didn't kill it?!"

"Nope. I let it roam free, just to be your personal Satan."

"You bastard!"

"Then go back to bed with a bucket and _sleep_! I've had it up to here with you! You've got a problem and you need to get yourself some more nicotine patches or something, but you _cannot_ keep this up!"

"You don't work, it doesn't matter!"

"Oh for _God's sake_, Sherlock! Do I need to call Mycroft?"

"He wouldn't do anything."

"No, but I would."

"No you wouldn't."

"Sherlock, I mean it. Get to bed now or I swear to you I _will_ lock you in that bathroom."

He rolled his eyes and slumped into his bedroom, closing the door and locking it, and made a loud thud by crashing onto the floor, his snoring coming to be almost louder.

"Good God, what am I going to do with him?" John asked himself. On his way back to his room, he made a change of plans. He hurried back downstairs, pulled the recliner in front of Sherlock's door, grabbed a blanket, and made himself comfortable, soon falling asleep and not to be awakened by anything Sherlock said or did in his drunken sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this one is so short, I have to get off the computer :( This is only part one of chapter 3, but part 2 will be shown as chapter 4...what I mean is that it's in one chapter on my desktop and two chapters on here SO please be patient :) expect the next chapter by tomorrow if not this evening :) Thanks!**

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They had been without a case for quite some time and Sherlock was being as whiney and annoying as ever. He needed a case. Now. All he was doing was deducing everyone, especially John. Every time he came home from a date or wherever he happened to go without Sherlock, he'd guess almost everything he had done even when he didn't tell him where he was going. John usually just does it now to give Sherlock something to do.

Christmas was only three weeks away and he still had yet to get a gift for Sherlock. He had no excuse except he didn't know what to get him. He was waiting on Mrs. Hudson's gift to arrive in the post, so there was one excuse. The best thing he could probably get for Sherlock would be another scarf, a telescope, or a severed head or other limb. But even then he wasn't sure if that would be good enough.

So he bumbled on downstairs to the kitchen where Sherlock was sitting and observing something under his microscope, changing the slides every now and then. John had become entranced in the work of his long fingers, but was interrupted by the ringing of the bell. He hurried down the stairs to get it, but nobody was there, only a brown box with a red string tied around it in a bow was at the door, addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock!" John called up the stairs as he slowly made his way up, "There's a package for you."

He entered the kitchen to a curious Sherlock with his hand out.

"Who from?" he asked simply as John handed it to him.

"There was no name. Nobody was out there either. Who do you think it's from?"

"I'm not sure. Did you shake it?"

"No."

"Positive?"

"Yes."

Sherlock held it up to his ear and gave it a small shake. There wasn't a sound, but the cocking of a gun.

Their eyes were wide.

"Did you do that?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, "No. It's in the box. If I pull this string-"

But he did not have time to finish his sentence, for the gun cocked again and fired, leaving a hole in the wall where Sherlock's heart would have been. They had dropped to the floor and were now crawling around the table to each other, Sherlock taking John's face in his hands to check for injuries.

"Are you okay?" John asked, pulling gently out of Sherlock's grasp in hopes he hadn't felt his cheeks get warm.

"Yeah," he replied, "I'm fine. There's something else in that box. A signal. There'll be men here in about thirty seconds. I want you to hide in the pantry and don't come out whatever you hear."

"Sherlock-"

"Listen to me! Go now and don't move from that spot until there are no noises. I'll leave a sign on the table. Go!"

John got up without another word and slipped into the pantry just before the flat door slammed open and a scuffle began. Sherlock grunted and shouted as he was ripped from the floor and thrown into something hard, probably the wall or doorframe since it shook the pantry slightly. There were three pairs of footsteps, including Sherlock's, inside the flat as the scuffle went on. Just as John prepared to peek out through a small crack, there was a loud thud and Sherlock gave a small, strangled gasp. He slowly opened the door just to allow enough room to see Sherlock lying on the floor, a small pool of blood forming underneath his temple.

John's heart sank.

He watched in horror as a very large man lifted Sherlock off the floor and onto his shoulder, mumbling something to the other man who'd entered with him, and escaping out the front door. John stumbled out of the pantry and buried his face in his hands. Why did he listen to Sherlock? Why didn't he save him from being taken? He remembered Sherlock said he'd leave a sign...what sort of a sign? Did he know who was coming for him?

John looked around the table, but he didn't see anything straight away except broken beakers, the microscope shoved to the edge, and the corner covered in Sherlock's blood. He sighed and punched the cabinet, causing it to swing open and nearly hit him in the head. In an attempt to keep his mind clear and on Sherlock, he searched the kitchen for the sign.

Despite searching for about twenty minutes, he came up empty handed. He understood if he could not have left a sign due to his tango with the assailants, but without it he had no lead-

A footprint.

One of the assailants stepped in the blood, his footprint leading out of the kitchen, through the flat door, and ending on the top stair. This was perfect, this was all John needed to find Sherlock, or at least identify his attacker. Somehow, John would get him back. He needed him. And if he didn't want to believe it, Sherlock needed him too.

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**Thanks for reading this chapter and I really appreciate your reviews and such :D Stay tuned for Chapter four! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Here's chapter 4/the rest of chapter 3 :) It's a feels-causer, so be prepared!**

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Sherlock woke to a blinding white light directed towards his face, so close he could feel the heat emitting from it. His head was sore and itched where the blood dried though he could not scratch it, for his hands were tied behind him in the chair he was strapped to in this God-forsaken building. His vision was blurry, putting a stump into his figuring out the exact location. It was empty, there was a stench of rotting vegetation, cardboard boxes lay in pathetic piles due to being soaked for a couple decades, and there were shelves stacked through the center of the room up into higher floors. The ceiling held an enormous skylight by the looks of it, for he was on the main floor off to the side, some sort of open assembly area. All he needed was one look at the table fixed with crude repairs and topped with odd objects used originally for vehicle or machine repair, but may be for his torture, and he figured out his location.

An old automobile warehouse.

Just as quick as relief came to him, it left, for the door at the other end of the building to his left opened and the large man by the name of Rod came grumbling in with a large back on his back. A trash bag filled with an oddly shaped object, strange curves on the side along with a lump at the top. Rod made his way over, his bald head gleaming in the light, and stopped at Sherlock who'd begun to shiver due to the near-unbearable coldness of England.

"Got yeh a lit'l present," he said.

"How sweet," Sherlock humored.

Rod glared at him, "I would kill yeh righ' 'ere, righ' now. But I can't. The boss would 'ave me 'ead if I did."

"Would he now?"

"He'll 'ave yours first, Sherlock 'olmes."

"Might I inquire as to what my present may be?"

"Of course. See fer yerself."

Rod lifted the bag and dumped out the body of a teenage girl, no more than sixteen, her brown hair tied up in a rather messy bun atop her head, blood sticky on her face.

"Don't worry," said Rod as he pulled an empty chair over and tied the girl to it, "she's still alive. When she wakes up, she'll be your company."

"Where are we?"

"Why?"

"Because I have a right to know if I'm going to die here."

"It'd be a waste of your time-"

"TELL ME OR I WILL NOT GIVE YOU THE INFORMATION YOU WANT!"

Rod's interest was peaked and he turned to face Sherlock.

"You're at an ol' automobile factory an hour outside London."

Perfect.

"Only that far?"

"Where else did you wanna be taken?"

"Anywhere but here."

"Wasn't my decision to have you brought 'ere. But it was my decision to find these tools."

He turned to the table and picked up a pair of beastly-looking scissors, snipped them, and walked behind Sherlock.

"Want a hair cut, Mr. 'olmes?"

"Touch me with those scissors and it will be the last move you make."

"Oh yeah?"

Rod moved back to the table and selected another tool, pliers by the looks of it. He examined them before walking over to Sherlock and knocking his chair on its back with a quick movement of his foot, Sherlock's head making a loud thud on the concrete floor.

"There are so many things I can do to you that not even Caesar would have thought to do to the Christians," he hissed as he stood over him.

"R-really?" groaned Sherlock, his head spinning and ears ringing.

"Of course."

To prove his point, Rod hooked his hands behind his jaw and started to slowly pull in opposite directions until Sherlock began to scream in pain.

"See?" Rod laughed as he let go and pulled the chair upright again, "There's more where that came from."

Sherlock became extremely uncomfortable when Rod bent down too close, but his comfort was the last thing on his mind when Rod put the pliers around his ankle, a very devious look on his face.

"Where's your savior now?"

Sherlock's eyes widened as Rod closed the pliers with all his strength, breaking his ankle with a sickening crack that nearly caused him to vomit. He screamed and Rod cackled, throwing the pliers to the side and tightening the ropes around his legs.

"Isn't that just the most fun ye've ever 'ad?" he laughed.

"N-not today," gasped Sherlock, trying to regain his composure.

"I'm not allowed to kill yeh, as I've said, but I can only do so much damage..."

Sherlock listened to him go on and on until he decided that being sassy was the only way to get him to shut up.

"Oh for God's sake, a dead horse could do more damage than you."

Rod stopped and stood, his eyes bearing down on him.

"What?"

"You heard me. Actually, while we're throwing insults, I just wanted to say that a rusty knife could give a girl more pleasure than you."

Rod was appalled.

He rolled his eyes and punched Sherlock in the face, but it backfired in more ways than one. He stepped forward too close and Sherlock had freed one of his legs, bringing it up between Rod's and bringing him eyelevel. Just enough for Sherlock to head-butt him and send him reeling backwards into the table where he unfortunately bumped it, allowing a knife to pin his head to the ground through an eye socket, followed by many other objects sliding off the table. He was dead.

"Moron."

Sherlock rolled his own eyes and tried to wriggle his other foot free without causing too much pain. Rod was probably the dumbest criminal he's met. When he tied him up, he made sure it was tight, but not secure. His foot was free in a matter of seconds and with a bit of contortion, he stood up so his hands could get over the back of the chair. The rope was loose on his wrists from the insane wriggling and twisting, the skin becoming raw, but he got them free finally. Moving to the girl, the moment his hands touched the skin on her scratched legs, she awoke with a shriek. He looked up at her and took her face gently in his hands as she broke out in a cold sweat and began to cry and panic.

"Who are you?!" she demanded, "Where am I?!"

"Please be quiet," he requested and removed his hands, "I'm Sherlock Holmes and I'm trying to help you escape."

"How'd you find me?"

"I've been here."

"Who was that man?"

"A moron. Ignore him."

She peered over his shoulder and began to panic again. He took her face in his hands again, pretending to check for injuries, and wiped away her tears. She was sweating and by the looks of her clothes and strange, shiny fabric beneath her shirt, he guessed she'd been on her way home from gymnastics. She never took her eyes off him as he untied her and helped her up, dusting off his knees.

"I'm Arabella," she said suddenly.

"Pleasure to meet you," Sherlock replied whilst searching for his coat.

"What are you looking for?"

"A way out."

"There's a door just there-"

"No, it is a trap."

"Oh...well, I am good at finding things if you need any-"

The door in which she was referring to escape through burst open and in barged three men. Arabella ran to Sherlock and he put her behind him, using his body to shield her. He was human enough to protect an innocent teenager. He needed a gun or some weapon to protect them.

As the men approached, the middle one began to clap slowly, the man who'd helped with his capture. He was about an inch or two shorter than Sherlock and not the most attractive, though he did possess a fair bit of well-conditioned muscle. But as he drew nearer, he realized something. He wasn't with a random teenage girl, locked in this warehouse.

The girl was the man's daughter.

"Bravo," said the man, "you've killed my guard and untied yourself. How...predictable."

"Why did you attack me?" snarled Sherlock.

"Because I wanted something from you."

The man's eyes flickered to his daughter and he knew if he didn't get out now, he'd never see the light of day again.

Sherlock tried to move, but a knife was shoved into his back before he could make up his mind. He collapsed onto the floor in immense pain and watched her run into her father's arms, shouting absurd things like "He touched me, Father!" or "He tried to kiss me!", all of which were ignored by her father for his eyes were fixed on the bleeding Sherlock.

"I've got a man on your boyfriend John," he said as he knelt by his head.

"He's not-"

"Shut up."

The man stood and kicked Sherlock in the face, breaking his cheekbone and nose, then stepped on his back where he'd been stabbed, grinding his foot into the wound to get a loud scream from his lips. _Hurry up, John,_ Sherlock thought, _please._ The two men led the girl out, sour thoughts in mind, and Sherlock was left at the mercy of this moron.

"You're so vague," said the man, "Oh, the clever Sherlock Holmes. Look at him, lying on the ground like an old woman."

Sherlock tried to move once more, but he only put his hand on his face before the man kicked him in the stomach adjacent to earlier wounds caused by Rod. He began to wonder if John had found some sort of sign even if Sherlock himself didn't have time to give him one.

"Ah!" he said, "Look what we have here. A lovely coat, Holmes. Is what I need in it?"

"Drop it."

The man and Sherlock looked towards the doorway and saw John standing firmly with a gun steady in his hand, aimed directly at the man whose name popped into Sherlock's mind at that precise moment. Donald Newton, preferably "Don".

"Oh look," he mocked, slinging the coat over his shoulder, "Sherly's boyfriend come to save the day."

"I'm not-"

"Yes you are. If you'll excuse me Mr. Watson-"

"Don't touch him."

John cocked the gun with a soldier's confidence and stepped closer.

"Don't you want to watch your friend die?"

"Not today. Never."

"I don't think-"

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

John had fired three shots into Don's torso and head, two being fatal shots, and he collapsed to the floor in a dead heap. John rushed over to Sherlock and took his face in his hands, coaching him to keep his eyes open and on him.

"Come on, Sherlock," John begged, "don't do this. There's a hospital a couple blocks from here and the ambulance is on its way. Come on, don't you dare close your eyes."

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John though his vision was dimming with the loss of blood. His mouth seemed glued shut, however he managed to speak two words he knew weren't enough to John.

"Thank you," he whispered.

John shook and smiled at Sherlock.

"You're w-welcome," he choked.

With a last grin, Sherlock closed his eyes and gave in to the blackness.

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**Check for updates tomorrow-ish :) Sorry I had to leave you here! I love you dearly!**


	5. Chapter 5

***NOTE: Chapter four has been reconstructed (partly) and you'll need to go back and read it again if you've been following this story and have been awaiting this chapter. It's a little more gory, but not too bad :) Please expect chapter six by the middle of next week, but don't hold me to that please :)**

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John rubbed his face with his hands to keep awake, waiting for Sherlock to open his eyes at last. They were in the hospital and Sherlock was stitched up and ready to go home in the morning, for he'd lost a great amount of blood, the doctor saying he shouldn't have even made it into the hospital. But John's superior knowledge kept him alive and for that he was thankful. He looked over at Sherlock, his forehead swollen and bruised but stitched shut, his torso wrapped in white gauze, and his nose bandaged and placed back properly. John was shocked the man hadn't broken his foot on Sherlock's cheekbones.

The sun was setting outside the window, the first clear day in about a week or so, and he had to admire it from Sherlock's bedside. They'd be spending a lot of time together since he was forbidden from cases, drinking (or any alcohol for that matter), roughhousing, and smoking for about six weeks. Sherlock didn't know any of this yet since he'd been out cold the entire time they'd been there, but John knew he would not be happy. In fact, he'd be extremely angry. He didn't linger on that fact since he knew him well enough to know there'd be a mess to clean up when he got home.

Just as he was about to doze off, Sherlock stirred and slowly opened his eyes to find an IV stuck in his arm and tubes up his nose. A very unpleasant experience, I must say. He tried to rip them out but he was stopped by John's firm grip on his hands.

"No," he scolded, "they need to be there."

Sherlock removed his hands from the tubes and steepled his hands over his mouth.

"When can I leave?" he asked quietly.

"Tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"Tomorrow morning?!"

"Yes, now calm down, you're going to break the monitor."

Sherlock laid his head back in the pillows, staring up at the ceiling in annoyance while John watched him carefully, the monitor slowing its beeping. The look in his eyes (along with the bruising) told John he must've been in much pain. As if he heard his thoughts, Sherlock blinked and grumbled about his nose.

"You all right?" John asked stupidly.

"My face hurts," Sherlock replied. John withheld a sarcastic remark by rubbing his own nose and checking his watch, not really paying attention.

"Oh, um...the doctor said no cases or any death-defying stunts for at least six to eight weeks."

Sherlock's gaze was enough to burn a hole through one's skull.

"Don't look at me like that," John commanded, "you're damn lucky you got away with a broken ankle, let alone your life."

"I wouldn't have a broken ankle if it didn't take you so long."

"It's pretty difficult to hurry up when someone gets in a car and drives away with your best friend leaving no evidence whatsoever except a bloody footprint."

"His shoes were clean-"

"He stepped in your blood, Sherlock. A _literal_ bloody footprint."

"...oh."

"Plus, I'm not you. It took me some time. You were gone almost four hours before I even got a lead. I'm sorry."

Sherlock nodded and said quietly, "It's all right. You did your best and you found me in time. Thank you, John."

His ears perked. Did Sherlock really...?

"Er...you're welcome," he said with a smile of satisfaction.

He nodded again and began to twiddle his thumbs in his lap, though he didn't have much time to really think about anything, for the doctor knocked on the door and entered with a soft smile.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Sherlock as he checked his charts.

"Divine," sassed Sherlock, but the doctor either chose to ignore it or didn't detect it.

"Excellent. I'm sure your, er, _friend_ has told you-"

"Why did you emphasize 'friend'?"

"Pardon?"

"You emphasized the word 'friend'. He _is_ my friend."

"Yes...? As I was saying, you're free to leave at eight tomorrow morning with prior inspection from a nurse. You've told him the rules, correct?"

"Yes," said John.

"Good. I'll be back around ten to give him more pain killers since these should wear off by nine or later."

"Thank you, doctor."

"Anytime."

With that, he left, and Sherlock turned to John with an armistice of deductions.

"He's a father of two girls, judging by the state of his fingers with traces of cotton candy nail polish on the cuticle, but he's not married because his ring finger is bare and there is no trace of a ring-"

"Maybe he doesn't wear it to work because he doesn't want to lose it or because-"

"He's gay. That's why he thought we were..."

"We were what, Sherlock?"

"Never mind. I'm going to try and sleep now."

"I thought you had to tell me more-"

"Shut up. Good night."

He turned over and covered his head with the blankets, stating that the conversation was over and never to be spoken of again. John checked his watch, sighing at it only being around seven, and his stomach answering with a low grumble. He wanted a meal, but he didn't want to leave the nurses at the mercy of Sherlock. God knows he can only fake sleep so long.

John had fallen asleep without dinner shortly after the nurses had come to give Sherlock more pain medication since he'd started complaining early, and was awakened around two thirty in the morning by his annoying grumbles in his sleep. He almost gave John a heart attack by shouting in his sleep and giving little sobs here and there. He hadn't expected him to be this traumatized by his ordeal, but then again, he didn't expect many things from Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John whispered, shaking him gently, "Sherlock you're having a nightmare."

Sherlock shouted and sat up too quickly, for he gasped at the pain in his abdomen. John stood up and pushed his shoulders back down on the bed and dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth to remove the sweat.

"You'll bring the nurses in here with all this thrashing and shouting," said John quietly before turning on the overhead lamp to give them more light.

"Forgive me," Sherlock breathed, "I just want to go home and scream in my sleep there."

John managed a smile.

"I figured I'd stay downstairs with you or something to make sure you're all right."

"Exercise becoming too much for you?"

He chuckled and sat back down, "No, I just don't want to disturb Mrs. Hudson with my running up and down the stairs all night."

"What makes you think you'll be doing that?"

"You seem to be suffering quite a bit of trauma. I remember my first months after the war, always having nightmares-"

"But that was the war. All that happened to me was I got kidnapped, my ankle snapped, and stabbed."

"And a broken face."

Sherlock eyed him.

"Look, Sherlock, this isn't going to interfere with my daily activities. All it'll do is cause me to leave my room for a week, if that."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, pain finally leaving him, and said, "Don't think for one second you'll be sleeping in my armchair."

John chuckled again, said good night to Sherlock once more, and relaxed in the chair, drifting into a deep sleep until the following morning when he would practically be knocked out of his chair by the rushing of none other than the grown man, Sherlock Holmes.

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**Thanks for reading again :) and bless your little hearts, this chapter was so boring. I promise more fun and antics next chapter :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the wait I had a terrible time trying to write this chapter what with Christmas and etc here and there. This chapter is kind of long so YAY! Enjoy :) and sorry ahead of time if it's terrible! You can tell where I got writer's block :(**

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Sherlock hated the crutches with all his heart even though he walked almost perfectly with them. John had been good at taking care of Sherlock except when he threw fits and didn't want his help, returning to his room as quickly as he could and slamming the door with one of the crutches only to fall on the floor after the door closed. John felt so sorry for Sherlock, he really did. He'd never been handicapped like this and he knew it made him feel helpless, and they both knew he did not like that feeling. So Sherlock went about, pulling himself into bed and making his own meals after almost making John punch him in the face with his insults thrown out of agitation. He was very worried about Sherlock.

The next couple days went by without incident until one night, Sherlock had insulted John so viciously he caused him to retreat back upstairs to his bedroom. John laid there on his bed for a couple hours trying to cool down before he decided to go check on Sherlock since it was getting late and he'd be going to bed soon. As he walked down the stairs, he heard a strange noise and stopped outside the flat door to listen. The lights were still on, so he knew he hadn't gone to bed yet. It came again, this time a little louder. John stepped back in surprise, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Sherlock was crying.

John peered around the corner to find him sitting on the floor against the wall in his blue robe, his head in his hands, and his crutches set against the wall beside him. John took a deep breath and entered the room quietly, hoping to not disturb Sherlock until he intended.

"Sherlock?" he said softly as he knelt down beside him.

"What do you want?" he snapped, not looking up.

"Are you all right?"

"Why does it matter to _you_?"

John raised his eyebrows in shock, but pressed on anyway.

"Because you're my friend and I'm worried about you."

Sherlock raised his head and looked away from John to wipe his eyes and pull himself off the floor, refusing all help from him. He managed to walk his hands up the wall and put his crutches under his arms with his back to John. He almost let him go but there was a strange purple spot on Sherlock's robe right over his wound. John tried to pass it off as a small stain, but it smeared to the side when Sherlock moved. His stitches must've come undone.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, "Sherlock, you're bleeding. Get into the bathroom right now."

Sherlock stopped and reached inside his robe to put his hand over his wound, and the moment his fingers touched it, he stood completely still.

"John," he said quietly, "I am sorry."

"We don't need to do this now, just get into the bathroom."

John, the flustered little fellow, carefully pushed him through the door and settled him against the counter so he could retrieve his medical bag from the cabinet, after bringing in a stool from the kitchen for Sherlock to sit on.

"I need you to take off your shirt," said John as he pulled the robe from his shoulders and tossed it into the laundry basket.

"Why?"

"Why...just do it. Or I won't numb you."

"Numb me?"

"Yes your stitches burst."

"Really?"

"Sherlock, stop stalling."

He could see him roll his eyes in the mirror as he pulled off his white t-shirt and put it on the sink.

"You might want to hang on to that," John cautioned as he sterilized his hands and put on latex gloves, enjoying the feeling of being a doctor once more, "I'm out of anesthetics. You'll need to bite on it."

"Are you saying-"

"You don't have to. I'm just warning you. Now hold still and straighten your back please."

Sherlock did as he was told and John went to work. As he suspected, Sherlock put his shirt in his mouth almost immediately after John got the dressings off and began to stitch him up again. He was so concentrated that not even the small grunts and gasps Sherlock gave disturbed him, nor the shouts of the drunks walking home from the bars could distract him.

It took him almost ten minutes before he finally finished (would've only taken five if Sherlock hadn't quit squirming no matter how hard he tried to stay still) and was cleaning up happily, retrieving a new shirt for him from his room. When he returned, he was greeted with a very excited Sherlock pacing the bathroom on one leg with his phone in his hands, texting away.

"What are you doing?" John asked as he handed him the shirt.

"A cab was found driverless with a bloodbath in the back seat," he replied, ignoring the shirt.

"No!"

"What?"

"No, Sherlock. No cases until you're better."

"I'm fine-"

"You're on one leg, hopping around. Damn it, you're going to hurt yourself-"

"Am I, John?!"

Sherlock had pinned John against the wall, his hand on his shoulder, his face extremely close, and as he spoke, his mint breath washed over John and he prayed the shadow Sherlock was casting hid his reddening cheeks.

"I need this case," he said in a low voice, "I haven't had a case for weeks, I've been cooped up here, I've been kidnapped. For God's sake, John, it's Christmas. Let me do this...please."

John's heart was pounding in his ears as he shrunk beneath Sherlock's fiery gaze, his blue eyes filled with excitement and slight anger, but he tossed his fear aside for just a moment to stand his ground.

"The case will have to wait for six weeks," said John as firmly as he could.

To his surprise, Sherlock gave in with an angry groan and toss of his phone into the kitchen as he stormed out as best he could with his crutches, slamming the door to his bedroom. John was very satisfied with himself, a little upset that he made Sherlock angry, but he knew he'd get over it in time. He'd solve the case from his room, having Mycroft send him pictures of the scene and other evidence.

John had distracted himself with making dinner, calling for Sherlock when it was done, and eating alone for he did not come out of his room. The door was locked so John could not bring him his dinner. "Oh well," he said to himself, "he missed out on a good meal". Trying once more to get him to eat, he eventually gave up and went up to bed for a good night's sleep...if he could get it with all the noise Sherlock started making.

* * *

The next few days showed interesting signs of Sherlock's recovery, for he winced less and spent most of his time in the kitchen observing specimens beneath his microscope. He did have John get him a warm rag to place on his back for the pain, but that was the only conversation they seemed to have. In all honesty, John missed the sound of his voice, he only heard it as Sherlock dreamed. He hardly said a word to him and he was afraid that he'd been so put out from not being able to do anything for about five more weeks. John hoped the present he got Sherlock would make up for it.

Christmas was only about a week away, finally, and the flat was beautifully decorated. Sherlock _did_ help as much as he could, but it wasn't a lot since his ankle was still broken for the most part, healing slowly just to annoy him it seemed. The tree twinkled in the corner with a very small amount of presents wrapped beneath it, mainly for their party guests and Mrs. Hudson, lights hung around the windows inside and around the mirror, and the smell of gingerbread filled the flat. Sherlock had tried walking a couple times, but not successfully, so he remained either at the desk or in his armchair on his laptop, browsing anything interesting. John spent most of his time talking to himself or at Sherlock, only getting a nod here and there, and it became very lonely in the flat. Very lonely indeed.

"Why aren't you speaking to me?" John demanded one evening. But Sherlock only sniffed and cleared his throat, typing away on his laptop. John asked again, the same answer: nothing. He'd had enough, and allowing his anger to get the best of him, he snatched Sherlock's laptop and tossed it into his armchair. Sherlock only sat there still.

"Why - aren't - you - speaking - to - me?" John hissed into his ear.

Sherlock slowly turned his head to stare at him.

"This isn't a game, Sherlock! I don't appreciate it at all! I'm sorry if I mad you angry-"

"You didn't make me angry, John."

The first words were finally out.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and pinched his nose before answering.

"You aren't the problem," he said earnestly, "My whole ordeal is the problem. I hate being trapped here all the time, I hate not being able to solve cases or make Anderson miserable. But I don't mind being..."

He mumbled the last words, making John lean in closer.

"Could you repeat that?" John asked kindly.

Sherlock took a deep breath, "I don't mind being here with you all the time. It makes me feel less helpless and alone."

John blinked.

"I...I'm glad I make good company," he said as he straightened and adjusted his God-awful Christmas sweater. He cleared his throat and turned to go up to his room, but Sherlock's quick hand grabbed the hem of his sweater and stopped him.

"Yes?" John said gently, the guilt of his anger getting the best of him.

"I'm sorry I haven't spoken to you and treated you like you didn't exist. I really can't stand being incapacitated."

John knelt down beside him and patted his hand, " I know. I hate to keep you from working, but I don't want you to get hurt."

Sherlock released his sweater and smiled at his friend as he put his hand on his shoulder. John could've shot himself in the foot for not moving sooner, for he felt his face begin to burn and there was no shade or any sort of darkness to hide it. He noticed Sherlock's face was red too and was a little more than pleased. But of course, he had to ruin it for himself by opening his mouth.

"Do you feel all right?" John asked, mentally punching himself.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "I...yes, why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know I just thought I'd ask since you haven't complained out loud for a week."

"Oh. Yes, I feel fine."

"Right...good."

"John."

"Yes?"

John turned his head and to his dismay, bumped faces with Sherlock. He tried to back away but was held in place by the strong hands of Sherlock Holmes. His breathing became very rapid as Sherlock turned his eyes to John, their noses brushing, their lips mere inches apart.

"John," Sherlock breathed. Just before their lips touched, John shook his head and stood up, realizing he'd only imagined it. A shameful fantasy it was, but he was happy it had happened.

"Are _you_ all right?" Sherlock asked as he followed John into the kitchen.

"Hm? Oh yeah, I've just been having trouble sleeping lately that's all."

They sat across from each other at the table.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I hear you shouting in the night and it worries me."

Sherlock's ears turned red, "Oh."

"Are you having nightmares?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know, maybe shouting incoherently in your sleep?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rustled his hair, throwing his hands forward as he always did when he was frustrated. He wasn't keen on others finding his flaws, especially John, and they both knew it. They both sat there staring at their hands as the snow began to fall outside, the fire cackling, and the sound of sirens causing Sherlock to lay his head on the table in misery.

"You know," John began, "the offer still stands for me to sleep down here for your company."

Sherlock raised his head, "I'm not having you sleep on the couch."

"It's my choice. I'll sleep down here tonight, all right?"

"I don't see why it makes any difference. You've been sleeping up in your room the entire time, why come down now?"

John stared at him. He knew it didn't matter what he did, though a twinge inside him made him think a little different.

"Look," Sherlock said finally, "I've got an armchair in my room that you're welcome to use if it really means that much to you, protecting me from my subconscious mind."

His gaze had fallen back to his hands as he thought to himself. Why was he suddenly feeling this way? He was his friend, nothing more. Nothing more. But yet his heart now pounded whenever he saw Sherlock looking at him or whenever he spoke, his voice soft and soothing. John shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, finally looking up at his friend.

"Are you mocking me?" he said, not really knowing why.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and blinked, furrowing them before speaking.

"What?" said Sherlock, "No. How is that mocking you?"

"I don't know. I'm just tired. I think I'll go to bed now."

"In your room?"

"Yeah. Night."

John hurried up the stairs, ignoring whatever Sherlock had said to him, and climbed into bed. He could hear Sherlock bustling about downstairs, lasting a couple hours until he retreated to his bedroom around two in the morning. It wasn't until the low grumbling of his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten dinner.

He sure as hell was not going back downstairs, not tonight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the wait, I've been busy and haven't been able to write for a bit. It's really fluffy so enjoy :)**

* * *

The following days were seemingly miserable for the both of them. Sherlock's nightmares had ceased and he seemed to be getting more sleep as his cheekbone finally healed, revealing a strangely shaped scar. His ankle still had a way to go, but it was Christmas Eve and he refused to go barefoot with a house full of people he hardly considered his friends. John actually did end up sleeping downstairs on the couch one evening and woke up in the middle of the night to Sherlock sound asleep in his chair turned towards him. Since then, he wouldn't go to bed until he was sure Sherlock was asleep, for he was afraid one day he might...

John came downstairs around two in the afternoon to Sherlock sitting the wrong way in the chair, his back in the seat and his legs on either side of the back of the chair.

"What are you doing?" John asked as he sat across from him.

"Thinking," he answered as he steepled his hands over his lips.

"You know all the blood rushing to your head is going to disrupt your thought process, right?"

Sherlock tilted his head back and stared at John.

"I'm surprisingly not trying to figure out anything," he said in a very monotone voice.

"Really?" John couldn't but chuckle.

"Yes, _really._ Just because I say I'm thinking doesn't mean I'm trying to solve every bloody case in the entire world."

"Bet you'd like that."

Sherlock moved very quickly to sit himself upright, though too quickly, for he gasped at the pain that shot through his body at the feeling of the skin on his back being pulled by the bandage. John sat back and watched Sherlock adjust himself so his feet were tucked in the chair with him, his toes pressed against the arm. His arms were wrapped around his legs and his cheek on his knees as he gazed sideways at John. As John began to avoid eye contact, he realized that his expression was changing from frustrated to intrigued, his eyes bearing down upon him with much fascination. This made John uncomfortable and he was moved to speak.

"Could you stop staring at me like that?" he said as he finally made to look at him, "You see me every day, why are you looking at me like it's the first time you've ever seen me? Like I'm an exhibit?"

Sherlock blinked and fell back to Earth. He cleared his throat and scratched at the cast as if he could get to the skin underneath.

"I didn't realize I was staring," he said very plainly.

John raised an eyebrow and leaned towards him.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes. A bit sick of this damn thing, though."

He gestured towards the cast and buried his face in his arms, indicating that he didn't want to speak anymore. John's empathy for Sherlock flooded back into his system and his face fell as he turned his head to look out the window at the snow beginning to fall silently. He didn't know how to help him without actually _helping_ him. Sherlock was a dear friend and he hated seeing him so distressed about not being able to take a case or even leave the flat.

"Listen," said John as he stood and walked over to him, kneeling beside him, "I can understand how you must be feeling. I broke my leg in rugby once and I couldn't walk properly for three months. It took me almost another month to actually be able to stand on it, it was so weak. But you'll be better soon. You're strong enough. Maybe not patient enough, but you'll get there."

John gave his shoulder a reassuring pat and stood in hopes that his "lecture" cheered Sherlock up a bit. However, he did not move when John's hand left him as he usually did. John stood for a minute, clenching and unclenching his fists while he racked his brain for something to say, but nothing came to mind. He maneuvered around the chair to sit at the table and check his blog, but Sherlock suddenly came to life and grabbed his hand. He turned back and saw that his shoulders were shaking and he was letting out very, very quiet sobs. John went over to him and knelt beside him once more, not releasing his hand and placing a hand on his knee near his other hand in a comforting gesture.

"It's all right," said John softly and gave his hand a comforting squeeze, "let it out, you need to. It's all right."

Sherlock lifted his head to rest the side of his face on his arm and look at John, his sleeve damp with the tears now racing down the side of his face as a very, very weak smile came across his lips. John smiled at him and that lifeless smile brightened and made Sherlock look like a boy once again. Surprising him, but not making him pull away, Sherlock laced their fingers together as John sat down and pulled his knees to his chest to watch the fire dance on his face.

"I'm trying to be mature about this," said Sherlock quietly, "but you know how much I hate not being able to do anything."

John nodded and rested his own head atop his knees.

"I know," he sympathized, "but you'll be free in about four weeks."

Sherlock sighed, tapping his thumb against John's knuckle.

"Tell you what, I'll get the information from Mycroft that you need for the cab driver case-"

"That's really, very thoughtful, John. It is. But I kind of disobeyed you and borrowed your laptop to solve the case."

He gave a guilty smile that broke John and made his anger melt into laughter.

"It was only a week old, if that," he laughed, trying to count the days between, but Sherlock was distracting him.

"It was a simple case. I had pretty much all I needed without leaving the flat."

"What was the verdict? What happened?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and shot off what happened exactly.

"The cabbie had been carting around people all day, a strange trio in black suits being the strangest. He didn't know that when he parked his cab and went into the local diner to get his lunch that they stuffed a body in his trunk, a man from a local mafia. It marked him for dead at that moment. So later that evening, he returned his cab and might as well have died of a heart attack since it started on its own and chased him down an alley where he was captured by a group of men, thrown in the back seat of the cab, and brutally murdered. But here's the twist, the three men who planted the body were part of that same cult and knew he was hoarding drugs and money while he lived beneath the city with the homeless. They went and got him, demanded their share, and accidently killed him. Oh yes it _was_ an accident, he was their spy and a good one too. He was in three other gangs, spying on all of them for the others at once. A dangerous game. They had beaten him back against the wall, his head already spinning and bleeding, and struck it one time too many against the bricks. So they got rid of the body, they tried to cover it up, they failed, and they got caught this morning and are now awaiting trial."

John stared at him.

"Amazing," he said, "You got all of that from pictures?"

"Yes. And Mycroft got a hold of some trustworthy people in the homeless network who saw it all happen."

"Homeless network?"

"My eyes and ears all over the city."

"That's incredible. So you'll be content for another four weeks?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I don't know if I'll be able to stand it."

John prepared himself for the coming storm.

"Well you're going to have to be. I've asked Mycroft and Lestrade to keep you out of any cases until your cast is removed."

He shielded his face, expecting Sherlock to lash out, but he only groaned loudly into his knees.

"Why?" he whined.

John breathed a quiet sigh of relief, really glad that he chose to whine instead of abuse the wall or any other piece of furniture.

"Because you need to rest your ankle," he answered simply.

"But-"

"'But' nothing. You know how it has to be. The only time you're allowed to walk is tonight, but not for long. So use it to your advantage. It's almost three now, why don't you get dressed? You'll need a shower, though."

Sherlock raised his head with an obnoxiously loud groan and unfolded himself, dangling his legs over one arm and his head the other. John smiled, realizing they still held each other's hands but he didn't make a move to change that. Sherlock took to tapping his thumb against John's knuckle again as the snow began to stick to the roads, roofs, and windows. He'd almost completely forgotten he had asked a question and looked up at Sherlock who was now staring at him.

"You really should take a shower," said John as he stood up.

"I don't want to," he mumbled.

"I don't care, you need to."

"But John-"

"No. You need a shower. Don't make me carry you-"

John realized his mistake a second too late, for Sherlock put his arms around John's shoulders and latched himself onto his front by wrapping his legs around his waist. He rolled his eyes and tried to pry Sherlock loose, but he wasn't coming off. Of course, he should have known better than to threaten to _carry_ him.

"Sherlock, get off me," he said, throwing his head back in irritation.

"No," said Sherlock against his shoulder.

"Yes, please get off."

"No. Walk, John. Or I won't take a shower."

"Sherlock..."

"No."

John sighed and Sherlock pulled himself higher, for he began to slip.

"Onward!" he said, muffled against John's shoulder still.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock!"

Sherlock let out a whiney groan like a child and clung tighter to John. Seeing that this was going nowhere, John gave in with an irritated groan and lifted Sherlock up a little higher so he could walk properly towards the bathroom. He bumped him against the shower as a sign that they'd reached their destination and he was to remove himself. But, of course, nothing happened and John wanted ever so badly to slam his head against the wall.

"Get off," he said very plainly.

Sherlock didn't say anything, nor did he move.

"Stop acting like a child and get down, please."

Sherlock sighed and stepped down, leaning against the shower. He looked frustrated, but content nonetheless.

"I'll get you some clothes, all right? You can go ahead and get in the shower if you want. I can't see you out here through the curtains. Oh and don't forget to cover your cast."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and removed his robe as John left the room to go next door and retrieve his clothes. He didn't understand why Sherlock had to behave in such a way. It was very unlike him. Unlike him to want to cling to John and make him carry him everywhere, somewhat unlike him to whine about everything, unlike him to hold John's hand the way he did only moments ago. The sound of running water and the curtain opening and closing snapped John back from his fantasies, and he hurried to take the clothes into the bathroom to set them on the counter and close the door behind him.

* * *

It was about forty-five minutes before Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, his hair still damp but not enough to drip onto his black dress shirt and blazer. He looked tired as he limped through the kitchen and settled into his chair to watch John read a book he'd found tucked away on the shelf.

"What are you reading?" Sherlock asked after a long while.

John held up a finger to finish the sentence he was on and marked his place to answer, "_The Hobbit_."

"_The Hobbit_?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know I even had that book."

"Well you do. I see you're getting around well. Feeling better?"

Sherlock nodded and heaved a sigh, twiddling his phone.

"Something bothering you?"

He shrugged. Of course something was bothering him, but why would he tell John? John brushed it off and went back to reading his book as Sherlock rosined his bow and began to tune his violin. John eventually had to put his book down, for Sherlock was distracting him. No, not in an annoying way, but a very intriguing way. He loved to watch him tune his violin, and besides, he had no idea what the last six pages of the book had said.

"Playing for us tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock answered with a small smile.

"Does that happen often?"

Sherlock shrugged as he moved on to the next string, "I haven't had many people to share Christmas with."

John looked at his hands. He had Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Lestrade, but then again he hated his brother. John had spent every Christmas with his sister and friends before the war, but since then he hasn't really had the motivation to be with them. This Christmas he was spending with Sherlock Holmes, a man he had only known for a day before he moved in with him, a man that made him feel like his opinion needed to be heard, even if it didn't matter. A man that he was beginning to feel intimately towards.

The thought scared him in a way that made him jump and rub his temples in frustration. No. He noticed the strings stopped playing and his head snapped up to find Sherlock staring at him with his usual imaginative expression. John wet his lips subconsciously and straightened himself in his chair, his hand clenching on his knee.

"You're staring at me…like that again," said John quietly.

"Are you all right, John?" he asked, his eyebrow twitching in concern.

"Yes. Why? What makes you think I'm not?"

He shrugged. John noticed how close he had moved, for he was scooted onto the edge of his seat and his hands were steepled before his mouth. John wet his lips again and both eyes flicked to either's lips only to be interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. John cleared his throat and excused himself, his cheeks beginning to burn, and his heart pounding in his chest. What was he thinking?

* * *

The Christmas party lasted late into the night, Lestrade having to escort Mrs. Hudson downstairs to her flat so she wouldn't fall over, and Sherlock having to take the wine from them all by ten. Molly had to leave shortly after arriving due to a sudden call at the morgue and to John's surprise, Sherlock seemed the tiniest bit sad, such a small emotion John wasn't sure if his eyes were truly playing tricks on him or not. Sherlock played the usual Christmas carols to everyone's delight, ending the performance with "Silent Night", and he seemed to walk rather well on his broken ankle, only sitting down when John made him. Goodbyes were bade and the flat door closed lastly behind Lestrade and the two were left alone once more. John decided to curl up with his book once more to reread the pages he hardly skimmed while Sherlock put the dishes in the sink that he would not wash later. As if Sherlock wasn't aware John was trying to read, he started making as much noise as he possibly could until John groaned loudly and decided to give him the attention he sought.

"Yes?" John snapped upon entering the kitchen.

"Hm?"

John took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Why are you making so much bloody noise?"

"I'm not—"

"Yes you are. Why are you?"

"Do you want to hear some more music?"

"What? No, Sherlock. You need to sit down now anyway, go to bed or something. Get off your foot."

"It doesn't hurt—"

"Just do it. Please."

Sherlock stared for a second, but agreed sourly and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. John stayed in the kitchen for a good hour or two, Sherlock having been peeking out to try and get out every ten or twenty minutes, until the light finally went off and the door stayed closed. He was too tired to climb the stairs to his room, so he made a bed for himself on the sofa. He blew out the candles, turned the lights on the tree on, and turned the rest of the lights out as he pulled the blanket over his shoulder.

However, Sherlock's bedroom door opened some hours later, waking John up, but he was too tired to move or to even open his eyes. He noticed the blanket was no longer on his body, but on the floor in a heap by the sofa, indicated by the shiver that ran over his skin. As stated previously, he did not want to move. Footsteps entered the sitting room and neared the couch, and a hand softly stroked John's hair and knuckles caressed his cheek before the blanket was pulled back over his body; the footsteps left and Sherlock's bedroom door opened and closed once more, leaving John with a broad smile on his face.


End file.
